Richie's inheritance
by Special Patrol Groupie
Summary: Aunt Mabel, Richie's last surviving relative, dies, and Richie inherits millions of pounds. This leads to sex, drugs, violence and crap double-entendres, only in more luxurious surroundings. Special guest star: Ethel Cardew.
1. Chapter 1

RICHIE STRIKES IT RICH

I.

For most people in English-speaking nations, inheriting an estate worth seven figures would be an occasion worth celebrating, but for Richard Richard it was a time of panic.

Richie, as he was generally known, was in his mid-50s the year he finally came into the small fortune he suspected might be lurking in his family somewhere: Aunt Mabel died and, apart from a few small bequests to longtime servants, he was the only beneficiary of her estate. Essentially an optimist, he nevertheless had developed a saving cynicism on some subjects – one of them being his longtime flatmate, Edward Elizabeth Hitler. After decades of small but valuable objects mysteriously disappearing, Richie had to finally admit to himself that the person he felt closest to in this world was a thief and a liar, definitely not to be trusted. Richie was incredibly angry with Eddie for a long time – he didn't speak to the bald, bespectacled oik for nearly a year (which didn't upset Eddie very much, Richie had to admit), but eventually he decided he could forgive Eddie for the defects of his character without necessarily trusting him. Valuable items were carefully locked up and inventoried. If something went missing, Eddie was the prime suspect – and that suspicion paid off, because the objects were returned, and things stopped vanishing. Oddly enough, despite all his protests, Eddie showed a greater respect for Richie than he used to have.

It was one thing to guard a few heirlooms from Eddie; this multi-million pound estate that was now his threw Richie into a panic. True, Eddie was his most likely heir, in the absence of any blood relations suddenly appearing, but that wouldn't impress Eddie. He might be able to inherit a hundred times as much as he could steal, but he was likely to decide that a hundred times nothing is nothing – so grab what you can.

At the reading of his aunt's will, Richie, when he understood what was happening, panicked. His aunt's solicitor, who had known Richie most of his life (and was therefore aware of his shortcomings) soothed him with a snifter of brandy, then called his financial consultant to see if she was able to take him on as a client.

"Good news, Richie, she has a cancellation this afternoon. Plenty of time for you to get to Marylebone and get started. I'll fax the documents over to her." He scribbled an address on a sheet of notepaper and handed it over.

EC Financial Services occupied a small but luxurious office in a beautiful building. The receptionist, a handsome blond man of about 30, showed Richie into an inner office done up in Georgian antiques with a palette of green and gold, brought him a cup of tea and said it would only be a few minutes' wait. Richie sipped the tea and looked out the window at a small but lovely bit of rose garden. He heard a sharp noise like shears snipping and thought he could hear someone singing softly, but that soon faded.

The door behind him opened and the sweet smell of roses preceded a woman's voice: "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mist—Richie?"

He looked up and started. He knew that voice, and the face was familiar, too. Pale complexion; rich auburn hair swept back into a French twist; large green eyes framed with thick lashes and a few crows' feet he didn't recall, but less than you might expect from the years that had gone by since he last saw them; a small but shapely mouth – he knew that face.

"Ethel Cardew," he said. "Ethel Bloody Cardew."

"Good to see you too, Richie," she said with a trace of sarcasm, laying the flowers on the credenza behind the desk and seating herself. Her velvet suit was a flattering bottle green with a paler green trim. A triple string of pearls encircled her neck.

"You're the principal of this little company?" Richie asked with some disbelief. Last he knew Ethel, she had been a civil servant working for the Hammersmith council.

"That's right, Richie," she said, twisting a diamond ring on her middle right finger. "I'm sure your aunt's solicitor had no idea what he was doing when he referred you to me."

Richie barely heard her. He had sunk into bitter memories: How he had been introduced to Ethel more than twenty years ago by his Aunt Olga, who strongly hinted that it was time he got married. Ethel, about five years younger than he was, was freshly down from Oxford with a 2:1 degree in Mods and had just started working for the council. She was sweet and shy, tended to dress modestly and deferred to Richie in everything. Richie had courted her in the most old-fashioned way, not even daring to kiss her until after they had been seeing each other for a year. He had finally told Auntie Olga he was going to propose, and she had given him a ring that had belonged to his mother – but he had to save up to have it resized to fit Ethel (his mother had been very small-boned, where Ethel was of a medium build), and by the time everything was ready, her patience was wearing thin – but he only knew this in hindsight.

He had kept Ethel away from Eddie the whole time, because he figured she'd think less of him if she knew he had a friend like that. They wouldn't have met on that trip to France and the Low Countries at all except that Eddie invited himself along at the last minute. Eddie had been obviously surprised to find that the woman with the old lady's name was actually young and attractive, and before long he was flirting with her. Richie took Eddie aside and told him to cut it out, that he intended to propose to her. Eddie only laughed and said a woman like that wouldn't ever marry a sad git like him. Richie threw a punch and Eddie ended up with a bloody nose. And that might have been it if Richie had never found quite the perfect moment to propose, while Eddie found a good enough moment to proposition her at Agincourt and then made sure Richie knew every sordid detail – not just then, but many times afterward. _They came at Bruges, they came at Agincourt_ _... talk about the Battle of the Bulge!_

Richie, looking at the polished businesswoman across from him, still couldn't help but think of her as a fallen woman, spoiled forever, a champion purebred show dog that had gotten out and mated with a mutt.

"If this is too awkward for you, Richie, I can recommend another adviser to you," she said kindly. "Another firm."

"Yes. No," he said, changing his mind midstream as he did far too often. He figured Ethel would understand at least something about his relationship with Eddie and the urgency of structuring things so Eddie couldn't gain access.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Positive."

"Very well," she said, opening the folder full of faxes. "You just inherited a very large estate ... "

Richie had thought about not telling Eddie anything about his inheritance; however, because he was planning to sell the old flat and buy something in the country, he had to say something. They would be moving house as soon as Richie found the country home. Ethel had counseled him to remodel the pomme de terre before putting it on the market, but Richie just wanted to get rid of it.

"So we're going to live in the country, isn't that exciting!" Richie said over a takeaway curry.

Eddie, being a sad, deformed urban pustule, was not excited at all. "Fuck you, I'm not going anywhere."

"You'll have to. I'm selling this place."

"No you're not."

Richie managed a contrived laugh. "Oh, Eddie, you silly bastard! As if you had anything to say about it. I want to live in the country, I have money to do it now, end of discussion. You don't have to come with me, of course, but who else is going to want to shelter you under their roof?"

"Nasty Linda?" Eddie asked.

"All right, but do you want to stay there?"

"Well, no."

"All right, then."

"I'll find someone."

"And they'll just throw you out into the street when you don't pay rent. You owe me about thirty thousand pounds back rent, by the way, not that I'm ever expecting to see it -- but other people are not as forgiving as I."

Eddie covered his ears with his hands. "La la la, I am not listening to that sweaty martyr and his endless whingeing!"

Richie let it drop. It didn't matter who had the last word anymore. It mattered more that he not work himself into a tizzy arguing with people.

They watched some cricket on the telly that evening. Richie went to bed early and Eddie sat by himself, watching an Emmerdale compilation, drinking vodka and thinking he really hated that certain extra, who was still on the programme, still saying nothing and just drinking all day and getting paid for it. He lit a cigarette, knowing Richie would yell at him in the morning for smoking inside but not really caring. Maybe he should try to find a new place – but even as drunk as he was, he knew he wouldn't. Inertia was too powerful. He knew Richie's moods, knew when he had to butter him up and when it wasn't necessary – and he preferred not to butter him up any more than necessary. Another person might not be so predictable. And, yes, Richie did have a point about the rent. Who else would put up with him not paying year after year after year?

He swayed a little, then controlled himself. He knew he had to be careful or he'd spill his vodka everywhere. He screwed the lid back on the bottle and put it by the telly, where he wasn't too likely to overturn it. Then there were two bottles and two tellys, and the room wobbled a bit back and forth. He tried to get up, but the davenport pulled him back down, telling him just to stay there and get comfy, it would be a while before he was getting up again. He sighed and looked for his cigarette, which had mysteriously vanished, so he lit another. The show stopped making sense, but the lights and sound were soothing, and he let himself drift into a trancelike state where he didn't have to think about whether he had wasted his life or not ...

Upstairs, Richie was half reading "Riders" and half listening for Eddie to come upstairs and go to bed. He had learned not to hover visibly, but the truth was he still felt responsible for his old mate. Co-dependent, the psychologist called it. Leave it to shrinks to take caring for your fellow man and turn it into a mental illness!

Aside from the sex scenes, he was bored with the book, and drifted off to sleep during a boring dinner party or whatever it was without realizing it. He found himself dreaming of the dinner party, chatting up people from the novel who kept bringing up Ethel Cardew, how she was dating some duke, and the smell of cigarette smoke kept getting stronger and stronger until he thought he was going to have an asthma attack –

The smoke alarm on the landing woke him up. "Oh, Christ, Eddie's trying to cook again," he thought, getting languidly out of bed, pushing his feet into his slippers, adjusting his underpants and opening the door –

Where he saw nothing but smoke and hints of a fire below.

"Eddie! Eddie!" he yelled, pounding on his mate's bedroom door. "Eddie, wake up! We got a fire!" He burst through the door, but Eddie was not in bed. Covering his mouth, he ran downstairs, shouting "Eddie! Eddie—"

and tripped over something lying in the entryway. It was Eddie, unconscious. Was he drunk or did he have smoke inhalation? Did it matter?

"Come on, Eddie – aargh, my back! Oh Jesus, what a time to throw my back out! Eddie, wake up, you've got to wake up! We've got to get out of here! The building's on fire!"

"Nah, that's jus' my bird, she's a hot one ..." Eddie slurred.

"Eddie, this is no time for sex! We've got to get out of here! Help me!"

"Help you?"

"The flat's on fire!"

"So, it's finally warm in here."

Richie slapped Eddie several times across the face. "Eddie, just try to act sober for long enough to help get me out the door!"

The door to the lounge burst into flames.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" screeched Eddie. "THE FLAT'S ON FIRE!" He struggled to his feet. "Richie, get up!"

"I can't! I threw my back out!"

Eddie clumsily seized Richie by one leg and dragged him toward the door – but then before he could get it open, he coughed hard, gasped and fell to the floor unconscious. Richie looked over his shoulder and saw flames licking up the wall and toward the staircase. He reached up to the door knob, pulled himself to his feet and got the deadbolt unfastened – but he now had to somehow get Eddie out of here before the alcohol in his bloodstream spontaneously combusted. Ignoring blinding pain and weakness and his own fear, he hauled Eddie over the threshold, lost his footing and tumbled down the steps. Before he could get up, something exploded; the sing-song of sirens slowly insinuated themselves into his fading consciousness, and he hoped he'd managed to get Eddie outside.

Then the sirens faded into the distance again, although the lights were coming closer ...


	2. Chapter 2

II.

It was like a surreal movie or a drug trip. First he was lying at the foot of the steps listening to the sirens' Doppler dance. Then he was on his back on a stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face. He thought he could hear Eddie moaning weakly, but he wasn't sure. Then he was in an ambulance, racing through the streets, and Eddie's moans were louder ... they were being bundled off at the hospital; something about seeing this one stat, and Eddie being rushed away at top speed ... some little kid saying "Why does that old man have tubes up his nose?" ... then he was finally fully awake with a nurse leaning over him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Smoke inhalation," she said succinctly. "Plus you ruptured your Achille's tendon going down the steps. Just lie still, it's not serious, and the doctor's already put it in a cast."

Richie seized the nurse's sleeve. "It's not that awful ginger-haired pseudo-punk ... what was his name ... Mr Basterd?"

"Oh, no, Mr Basterd's long gone," the nurse said, leaving the room.

Thank God for small miracles! Richie sat up and looked around; he was still in the examination room. He tried to piece together what had happened, but aside from guessing that Eddie had probably been smoking and watching telly and drinking, he knew very little. Well, no, he was sure he wouldn't be able to go back to the flat for a long time. He didn't know if the upstairs rooms had become involved, although that seemed likely. For both he and Eddie, the loss of what was in their bedrooms was more serious than the loss of anything downstairs – they both kept their irreplaceable mementoes in their rooms.

Richie took a deep breath. The air was pure, but it made him cough anyway. His bronchial tubes felt the way they did after the annual Hammersmith Riots around Carnival time, when the burning that accompanied the looting choked the streets with smoke for days on end. The fact that he could even feel them at all, that he could tell where the main air tube split off in his chest, plunging into each lung, was a bad sign.

He wondered how Eddie was feeling. He wondered how he was going to get home. He wondered if he would have to figure out who he was going to stay with until the house was back in shape. He wondered if the insurance on the place would cover it. He wondered if the policy had expired with Aunt Mabel. He wondered why these things kept happening to him.

He fell asleep somehow and woke up to be told that he was being discharged. He learned that Eddie had been admitted to the pulmonary care ward with serious, but not life-threatening, smoke inhalation and would be kept there for as long as a week.

Richie bought a copy of the Guardian and a small stuffed animal and hied himself along, still dressed in pajamas, the casted leg thumping along like a pegleg, to the pulmonary ward, only to be told he couldn't see Mr Hitler right away because he was getting a physiotherapy evaluation. He sat down and read the paper, every page of it; he did the crossword and the Sudoku; he read the paper again; he stared out the window and watched people come and go on the street; and still nobody came to tell him he could see Eddie yet. He gave the stuffed animal to a little girl who was restless and driving her mum up the wall. He went back to the nurse's station and told them he was there to see Mr Hitler, and was told he was having physiotherapy.

"But he was having that when I got here," Richie protested.

"Oh, really? That was four hours ago! I'm sorry, I'll call you as soon as he's done."

Richie drew a deep breath to scold the nurse for her carelessness. The sudden rush of air irritated his bronchial tubes, and he coughed uncontrollably. He saw stars; the edges of his vision turned black and he though he was going to pass out – but the nurse came round the counter, helped him to a chair and told him to put his head between his knees.

"You sound like you could use some respiratory physio yourself, sir," the nurse observed when he got his breath back.

"Well, I don't know why, I was only in the same fire as my mate," Richie said, sitting up carefully. "But he was in the lounge, where it probably started; I was upstairs. I only got a little bit of smoke."

"Still, you should be using your inhaler," the nurse said.

"My what?"

"Your inhaler. Didn't you get a prescription for something to open up your bronchial tubes until they heal?"

"No, nothing," Richie said.

"Oh for heaven's sake," the nurse said. "What's your name again?"

"Richard Richard," he said.

She picked up the phone and tapping in a number. "Maybe the doctor didn't think it was necessary, but ..."

Richie turned away and looked around the ward. He saw Eddie lying in a bed with his glasses off, asleep. He had a tube up his nose, like Richie had had, an IV in one arm, electrodes on his chest and something clipped to one index finger. Richie's eyes stung a little and his throat closed up a bit at the sight. What would he do if something happened to Eddie? In spite of everything, Eddie was a constant, a familiar presence ...

Something clicked and he turned back to the nurse, who was drumming her fingers on the table.

"Are you on hold?" he mouthed silently. She nodded.

"Eddie's not having physio," he told her softly. "He's asleep."

"Yes, this is Kathleen Hutchence in Pulmonary, I have a recently discharged A&E patient named Richard Richard who says he didn't get a prescription for a bronchiodilator inhaler, and he's having symptoms that seem to suggest he should have gotten one ... oh. I see. Yes, I'll send him down. Thank you." She hung up. "They forgot. You can pick them up at the front desk in A&E."

"Fine, fine," Richie said. "My friend over there, he doesn't seem to be getting any physiotherapy at the moment. In fact, he seems to be having a bit of a kip."

Nurse Hutchence started and turned pink. "Well, um, yes, I actually told him you were here, and he said to not let you in until he was done sleeping ... he was rather adamant about that."

Richie was in Eddie's room before the nurse could stop him. He leaned over the bedrail and stuck his face near Eddie's. "You'll have plenty of time to sleep later, you spoiled smoked trout," he snarled softly. "Wake up!"

Eddie opened one eye. "Bugger off," he rasped.

"I will not, young man! I've been waiting four hours, worried sick about you, and you knew I was there, and you couldn't be fucked to see me, could you?"

Eddie weakly waved two fingers at him. "I'm not feeling up to coping with your volumes of bollocks, all right?"

"You wouldn't be up to anything if I hadn't saved your life, in spite of the fact that I'd thrown my back out," Richie pointed out. "Hang on ... if my back's out, how am I leaning over your bed without pain? Fuck, who's in charge of continuity around here?"

"Not me, mate," Eddie muttered, turning his head away from Richie.

"Well, maybe I put it back in place when I was yanking you out the door," Richie said.

"That's convenient," Eddie agreed listlessly. "Look, will you just get on with the fucking plot?"

"There's a plot?"

"Maybe."

"Nobody told me!"

"Well, that's because you'd probably go babbling it all over fucking Britain if they told you about it. Look, go away, please, I'm not involved in this bit."

At a loss, Richie left Eddie alone and went back to A&E, where he collected a green hockey puck he was told was the inhaler, as well as a few other medications that were supposed to help him with his injuries. He thought about going back to wait to see if Eddie was any better – but he realized that visiting hours would soon be over and he'd need somewhere to stay. He was technically a millionaire now, but he had no home, no money, no chequebook, and no credit card. Asking around the A&E waiting room for change, he instead was allowed to use a waiting vicar's mobile phone, and he used it to call Ethel Cardew.

"Richie! Are you all right?" Ethel asked when she heard his voice.

"I'll live," he said shortly.

"I heard there was a building that burned down in your neighbourhood, but I didn't know if it was your place or –"

"A building?"

"Yes, the whole thing burned to the ground," she said. "Total loss, they were reporting."

Richie drew a deep, shuddering breath, which started another coughing fit. He fumbled with the inhaler and managed to get a puff off it, which made him feel a little better, but he still had to put his head down to get rid of the dizzy feeling.

"Richie? Richie?" Ethel was asking.

"Sorry, I inhaled a little smoke in getting out of there," he said. "The whole thing's gone?"

"I drove past this afternoon," she said. "The council's already tearing down what's left."

"Well, that's just effing marvelous," he said brokenly.

"And you called because you need money."

"Well, yes, I've nowhere to stay, no cash, no credit ..."

"Well, I can't help you with the financial end of this," she said. "There's all kinds of red tape before you can actually get your hands on the money, you know – and with your credit rating, nobody's going to be willing to loan you anything. Not without charging usurious interest, anyway; which, in the strongest possible terms, I do not advise you to pay."

"Well, if that's all I can get –" Richie began acidly.

"Hang on, hang on, Richie, let me finish. There's ways around this. Now I can get you a hotel room, pay for it myself, and bill it to your financial services account with me. I would have to tack on a small surcharge for the time and use of my money – nothing usurious, of course. But as your financial adviser I have to say that's still not the best option."

"Then what is my best option?" Richie exploded. Was this how Eddie felt talking to him sometimes?

"Your best option, financially speaking, is to stay with a friend who will let you use her spare rooms until you get all this bureaucratic nonsense cleared up and you get your hands on your inheritance."

Richie almost sobbed in frustration. "I don't know anyone who'd let me stay with them – nobody I'd want to stay with, that is."

"Sure you do. You know me, don't you?"

Richie couldn't find anything to say.

"Look, I have a maisonette, nice place, four bedrooms, plenty of room for you and Eddie to stay for as long as you need," she said. "Emphasis on 'need,' of course. I'm going to know when you have your money, and I'll be glad to help you find a place once you do, but when you do reach that point you'll have a month to find it. After that, I'm changing the locks and won't be responsible for sheltering you."

"I think I'd be insulted if the situation weren't what it is," Richie said. "I'll take it. Um..."

"You need a ride," she said.

"Well, yes. I have about 15 pence, and that's because I found it in a vending machine."

"Fine. I'll be there in twenty minutes. ... How's Eddie?"

"He'll live," Richie said shortly. "Look, after Agincourt, I really don't care to discuss him with you."

"Richie, that was almost twenty years ago!"

"I don't care. You let him shag you, and --"

There was silence, and Richie wondered if he'd gone too far, reminding her of that.

"Of course, Richie," she said in a controlled, subdued tone. "But I think we are going to have to discuss what happened. See you in a bit."


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Ethel picked him up in a black Bentley and drove him in climate-controlled, leather-seated, wood-paneled, six-speakered comfort to a home that was Tudor on the outside and English country on the inside, despite being in the middle of Chelsea. She let him pick which of the three guest rooms he would use, and he chose the largest one, done in blue and white with silver accents, with a view of the garden out back – more roses, plus irises, tulips and a sea of wildflowers. The wind wafted the sweet scents into the room and shifted the shadows of the trees on the wall. Moving to the country would be the right thing to do, if just this little bit of nature could lift his spirits so much.

He lay down for a nap on the soft, spacious bed, waking to the scent of lilac and roast chicken and potatoes. He went down the stairs into the kitchen to find the table set and some white wine poured, and Ethel putting a simple green salad on his plate.

They didn't speak much throughout the dinner. It was just too awkward.

She cleared away the plates and led him into the drawing room, where she made him a cup of coffee with one of those pod things, had one herself, and then said, "I think I should explain."

"What's the point?" Richie asked. "It was twenty years ago."

"Right, and you've had that long to steam over it and listen to Eddie gloat about it – oh yes, I know he does. Believe me, it does not make me feel good about myself."

"Why not?" Richie snarled.

Ethel sighed. "There was no reason it had to happen. Oh yes, I was upset you puked all over me on the bus, and I was unhappy that you were taking so long to propose –"

"You knew I was going to?"

"I knew you'd said you were going to," Ethel returned. "I knew almost from the moment you told your Aunt Olga. She and my mum were very anxious that we get married, you know. But you didn't propose, even after you'd had the ring back for weeks, and I thought I'd done something to make you change your mind ..."

"And every time I got worked up about it I thought you didn't know, so I could wait until I was calmer!" Richie felt about twenty different emotions all at once – sorrow, anger, joy, regret ... "Oh, if only one of us knew the whole story, things might be different today!"

"Yeah, we'd be divorced instead of never married."

Richie looked at her. That wasn't what he had been thinking at all. He thought they'd be happily in love, looking forward to their 20th anniversary, with their teenaged children (two of each) blossoming into worthy heirs of the Richard family, and Eddie ... well, working as their chauffeur or butler or some such, knowing his place and keeping to it – no, no, that wasn't Eddie. He'd have tried to seduce Ethel sooner or later. It was just the way he was. Just like he'd had it off with the Moldovian countess. Just like he'd stolen or detoured who knows how many birds from him before he even got a chance with them.

"Oh, I suppose you're right," he said. "It wasn't meant to be."

"I'm glad you see it that way, Richie, I really am," Ethel said. "I felt awful about ... well, Agincourt, as you call it. I'd worked myself up into a pretty rage, and Eddie was so kind to me about it, and one thing led to another – and I felt so ashamed of myself afterward that I couldn't look you in the eye. And the real problem is –"

The phone rang. "Oh, damn, excuse me." She crossed the room to an absurdly rococo gilt and white telephone and picked it up. Richie didn't listen to her conversation; he was thinking about Agincourt again. If only, if only, if only he had simply confronted her, got the fuck over it, and proposed anyway; even if the marriage had failed, he wouldn't be a virgin anymore. He wouldn't have to get married again; he would just have the confidence to score without going so ridiculously overboard about it.

"That was the hospital," Ethel said. "They've moved Eddie into a general ward. They're going to let him go in two or three days."

"Oh, thank God he's going to be all right. He looked awful when I saw him last."

"Eddie's too tough to let a little bit of smoke kill him off," Ethel said casually. "Well, it's too late to go see him, what shall we do – have a game of poker?"

Richie froze.

"What's wrong?"

"Well, it's just that ... I don't know how ..."

"Oh, rubbish. You used to play poker with Eddie all the time."

"Yes, but I never learned the rules."

Ethel slapped her forehead. "Oh for ... well, you may as well start learning now. Sit down."

Ethel only went to the office in the afternoons four days a week; mornings she spent at home doing research, tracking her clients' portfolios, or tending to her own investments. Most of her income came from investments, she told Richie. She had started with a small inheritance from her father and built it up. Aside from this house, she owned one in the South of France. She readily owned up that she was not as wealthy as she could be because she wanted to enjoy her money. If she worked eighteen hour days, seven days a week, she might have an enormous net worth, or she might have a nervous breakdown.

Evenings she was in a good enough mood to concoct a good supper; then she would suggest some kind of board game or some programme on the telly, or both. If they watched telly she would also do a bit of needlework – Richie was never sure if it was knitting or crocheting; it involved an enormously long needle, whatever it was. And she would listen to Richie as he talked, nodding and smiling and making the occasional comment. Such a nice change from Eddie, who would tell him to shut up after about five minutes. It was just like the evenings they'd spent together when they were dating.

Eddie was supposed to get out of the hospital that Friday, but then he contracted some kind of infection and the doctor decided to keep him over the weekend. Richie went over on Saturday afternoon to bring him takeaway fish and chips and an illicit can or two of lager and to cheer him up. The last part didn't work so well. After an hour Eddie yelled at him to either shut up or get out. Ten minutes after that, Eddie yelled at him to shut up AND get out. Richie started walking to the tube station but turned left where he should have turned right and found himself near the old flat. The building it had occupied was torn down now, making the local skyline look gap-toothed. Richie stood looking at it, feeling an ache in his throat; he had lived there all his adult life. Forty years of memories, up in smoke. Although some of those memories weren't worth remembering ...

He finally got back to Ethel's, well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon. Ethel was in her study, feet up, talking on the phone to someone.

"Oh, he just walked in, speak of the devil. Hello, Richie! Yes, that's the one I was dating a long time ago for a couple of years ... yes, yes, I know, he's a little odd, but he's harmless – he's just inherited a lot of money now so you have to call him 'eccentric.'" She laughed, and Richie headed up the stairs to change into something more suitable for lounging in. He took his time before exchanging his dress shirt and tie for a polo shirt and a cardigan and heading back down the stairs. Ethel was still talking, and when her voice became distinct to him, he froze.

"... utterly and spoiled me. I compare other men to him and it doesn't matter how intelligent, gifted, wealthy, successful they are, they flunk the most important part of the test. They don't touch me – emotionally, I mean – they don't touch me the way he does. And without that, the rest of it doesn't matter. Yes, I said _does_, present tense. I realized it this past week, after the fire at his flat, and I saw him at the hospital – well, I still love him as much as I ever did. We patched things up a bit, and I'm glad. I would marry him right this instant if he'd only ask. ..."

Richie turned and headed back up the stairs, afraid he would do or say something stupid. She wasn't talking about him, was she? Of course she was! Who else could it be?


End file.
